


So You Could Take It Off

by ellipsometry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Crossdressing, Exhibitionism, F/M, Grinding, Maid Outifts, Post-Time Skip, ah the indulgence of fucking during war times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 16:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: “Something the matter, Professor?”Linhardt is wearing a maid’s outfit.  This is affecting Byleth a normal amount—which is to say, very much.“No,” another conspicuous page turn.“Oh?” Linhardt’s head tilts, and his hair falls in equal response, a tumble of dark, silky green against white lace, “Your brow is so furrowed I’m concerned it might stay that way.”





	So You Could Take It Off

**Author's Note:**

> hornie.docx

“You’re staring an awful lot.”

Sometimes Byleth years for the days when her former students feared her too much to tease her. “I’m staring a normal amount,” a pause, “Which is to say, not at all.”

Byleth makes of show of turning a page of the book she’s (attempting to) read, a crisp _thwick! _that punctuates the quiet of the empty library. She can feel round blue eyes tracking her moves carefully, and wonders, not for the first time, if Linhardt ever was afraid of her at all. Most students would preen and primp and compete for her attention, but he never had. _Does that bother me?_ Byleth wonders, but doesn’t bother giving an answer she knows won’t be honest.

“Something the matter, Professor?”

Linhardt is wearing a maid’s outfit. This is affecting Byleth a normal amount—which is to say, very much.

“No,” another conspicuous page turn.

“Oh?” Linhardt’s head tilts, and his hair falls in equal response, a tumble of dark, silky green against white lace, “Your brow is so furrowed I’m concerned it might stay that way.”

In terms of original sins, asking Linhardt to join her house back at Garreg Mach was Byleth’s first mistake. He had spent so much time rebuffing her invitation, muttering something or other about his reason studies, only to seek her out after the ball, posturing as if it were his idea all along. Once Linhardt decided something was worth his time, he put his all into it—lately, it seemed, he was hyper-focused on pushing Byleth’s buttons. Five years apart has only piqued his curiosity, it seems, and now he sets about carefully observing her responses to his poking and prodding and baiting, constantly refining his methods.

So, perhaps Byleth’s second sin was letting Linhardt finally push her over that edge, until she had him crowded up against the crumpled sheets of her bed in the middle of what was supposed to be a normal, chaste tea time. _You’re a tease, Professor, _she remembers him saying, a splendid case study for the pot calling the kettle black.

To say things had spiraled from there was… an understatement. Byleth felt an unease, leaving war room meetings only to hear the sound of soft footsteps trailing hers, Linhardt following her into her room as if it were the most natural thing in the world, night after night.

And the strangest thing—it did feel quite natural. Linhardt would curl up on her bed, buried in a tome of some nigh-inscrutable magic history; Byleth sipping tea and studying plans for their next troop deployment. Eventually she would amble to the bed. Sometimes they would fool around, tire each other out. Sometimes Byleth would just lay down, stroking Linhardt’s hair until she fell asleep. (She always fell asleep first, a small, funny irony she held on to like a precious secret.)

It had been Mercedes that invited Linhardt to study with her for the maid class, and join her on the day of the certification exam. _It says only women but… that can’t be right, right?_ She was far too encouraging, as per usual.

“Byleth?”

Byleth starts, always a bit alarmed to hear Linhardt call her by her name. He’s crossed the room, now perched on the edge of the table where Byleth is sitting, skirts gathering in his lap, where his hands sit folded innocently. The outfit itself isn’t terribly revealing—the black skirt sits just below his knees, paired with a white apron that has thick white straps that fit snug over Linhardt’s shoulders, trimmed in lines of delicate lace that ruffle with his movements. The sleeves poof out from his shoulders, ending at the middle of bicep, paired with long white gloves made of a fabric so silky they shine in the light.

Perhaps to aid in movement, there’s a deep slit to one side of the skirt, soft ruffles framing a sliver of thigh, so Byleth can see where the white of thigh-high stockings meet the peach of Linhardt’s skin. Just that bit of skin looks so unbearably soft and inviting in the low light of the library at midnight. Byleth swallows so hard she can hear it.

Then, softly, “I thought you might like it.” It’s not smug or teasing but—_Oh_.

The table between them suddenly seems miles too far. Byleth reaches out to grasp a fist in the carefully-tied nest of white ribbons at Linhardt’s chest, pulling him down for a kiss so aggressively she can hear fabric tear. Linhardt smiles against her lips, soft and sweet and as refreshing as a warm bath after a long day of training. He kisses like he does most other things—slow, completely focused, relishing the feeling of Byleth’s lips sliding against his own. He hums, a small pleased noise.

Byleth pulls back just an inch, before diving back in, kissing him once, twice, a third time, standing up and leaning properly over the tabletop. She pauses, smoothing a hand up Linhardt’s chest, the smooth curve of his neck, resting at the base of his jaw, where he leans into it, instinctively, searching. His mouth is dropped open slightly, lips pink and wet and inviting. She runs a thumb over the edge of a plush bottom lip, and Linhardt opens his mouth obediently, sucking on it softly, and Byleth’s eyes go dark with want.

Thumb pulling Linhardt’s jaw open, Byleth dips her head down to capture his lips once more, this time at her pace—quick, biting, hungry. Hand against his throat, Byleth can feel the pleased rumble as she swipes a tongue against his, frictionless and messy and searching. She nips at his bottom lip, gently for now, but when she finally pulls back his mouth is swollen and red and kiss-bitten, a trail of saliva connecting their lips where they pause, open mouths breathing into each other.

“You’re too far away,” Linhardt whines, breaking the silence.

“I’m right here,” Byleth teases, but she feels much the same—wanting the feel of his body up against hers entirely.

Linhardt, already half on the table, swings his legs around, a dramatic swish and flutter of skirts, until he’s sitting right in front of Byleth, straddling her legs where she stands.

“Much better,” like this he’s taller than her, and dips down to kiss her, arms lacing around her shoulders.

_Much_, Byleth agrees, hungry hands mapping the shape of Linhardt in his skirts and ruffles, the scratch of expensive lace at his waist, toying with the buttons at his chest, the flex of thigh muscle under his skirt. 

Ordinarily, she would be more than happy to make out with Linhardt for a while and leave it at that—often that’s all they have time for. But it’s a rare day of rest tomorrow, and there’s nothing but an ache of want in the center of Byleth’s chest and—

And Linhardt is wearing a maid’s outfit.

Like this, Byleth can feel the head radiating off his body, the tented fabric of his skirt brushing against her thigh—Linhardt groans involuntarily at the friction of it, arching into Byleth’s body.

“I didn’t—” he whines, hips rutting towards her own, “I wasn’t expecting this to… affect me so.”

“You’re really worked up, aren’t you?” Byleth says it with genuine curiosity, tipping Linhardt’s chin up with her pointer finger, watching his eyes glaze over with want, “It’s cute.”

“Byl—” Linhardt is cut off by Byleth’s fingers, pressing up against his cupid’s bow, then into his mouth once more. He takes it obediently, sucking them diligently, hollowed cheeks red with embarrassment. In truth, Linhardt has a horrible gag reflex, but Byleth finds it a bit charming, the pathetic noises he makes as she fucks his throat gently with her pointer and middle finger. At first he attempts to suck on them, pleasure them like he would her, but after a minute he tips his head back, content to just take whatever she gives him.

Linhardt’s hands are fisted in his skirts—waiting for permission to touch her, Byleth realizes. _How sweet._

Byleth slows the movement of her fingers, grasping Linhardt’s tongue between them instead, watching the trails and bubbles of spit gather at the corners of his mouth as he drools, “You should touch me.”

His hands are upon her instantly, pulling at the fabric of her black top, pushing it up until her breasts are freed—she had nothing on underneath, given the late hour, and her nipples peak at the sudden rush of cool air. Linhardt fondles her, traces the curve of her waist, scrambles to pull her closer, that small space between them suddenly too far. The smooth fabric of his gloves feels foreign and slippery on her skin.

Byleth lets him paw at her, her fingers resting in his mouth as she kisses down the side of his neck, nipping at the exposed collarbone. The lace of his apron brushes against her own neck, a lover’s extra kiss. He whines when she sucks a particularly sensitive red spot onto the side of his neck, the slope of skin leading to his shoulder—it’s always a rush to get such a reaction out of him, out of someone so usually composed.

But perhaps Linhardt feels the same way, seeing her like this.

“That’s enough,” Byleth announces, placing one hand behind Linhardt’s head, bracing him as she tips him backwards onto the table, skirts flipping up as he goes, spreading his legs automatically.

“Are you—”

“I wasn’t given smallclothes as part of the armor,” Linhardt anticipates her question, running a hand down his body, palming at his cock, hard and completely unclothed underneath his skirts.

“How shameful,” Byleth smiles, tracing a finger up the length of his erection, feeling him shiver. She slaps the inside of his naked thigh lightly, and Linhardt twitches, sensitive skin showing a red imprint of her fingers.

“I—I, mm, had hoped for a, well, e-enthusiastic response from you.”

Byleth just gives a blithe smile, thumbing ever-so-lightly at the slit of Linhardt’s cock, slipping in the mess of precome there. She _could_ tell him just how wet she, how she can feel herself dripping, a tense coil of arousal sitting in the pit of her stomach, growing tenser and more pronounced with every dip and curve of Linhardt’s body.

But it’s just more fun to watch him squirm.

Byleth moves one hand up Linhardt’s torso, gripping the thin taper of his waist—he’s more muscular than he looks, a kind of lithe muscle one can’t help but build up after years of training. Even if his training was mostly reluctant, it’s paid off nonetheless.

She moves hands from his cock to run her spit-slicked fingers across the rim of his ass. He exhales, hard, and spreads his legs accommodatingly, reaching down to pull his thighs apart—debauched and on display.

“What a naughty maid,” Byleth says, and she can’t keep the laugh out of her voice.

“You can dispense with the roleplay, _Master_,” Linhardt breaths out, the bite of his remark swallowed by the immediate groan that follows as Byleth eases a finger inside him, “I—mm, _Byleth_—”

“I know, I know,” Byleth’s free hand grips his hip harder, strong enough to hold him still as his hips squirm, rolling down on her finger. She dips her head to kiss the inside of his thigh, and his entire body bucks at just that small touch.

Linhardt is _noisy_ in bed—and noisier still in the cavernous library, each small whimper and whine echoing around the room, “I w-want—_hmm_—I want you to fuck me,” he whines, petulant as ever, as Byleth eases another finger inside, pumping steadily enough to tease but not enough to please.

“Aren’t I already?” Byleth marvels at her own ability to keep her voice steady.

“N-No, I mean—” Linhardt cries out in frustration, and Byleth watches a fresh bead of precome slide down the head of his reddened cock, dripping down to dirty the soft cotton of his skirt, “Like you do, with y—with your cock.”

Byleth lets out a soft purr from the center of her chest, a deep well of possessiveness opening up inside her. She hadn’t known she even had the _ability _to feel this way, not before Linhardt first looked at her like she hung the sun, moon, and stars—a boundless, infectious curiosity.

And it didn’t hurt to see him like this—weepy, body flushed pink with want, back arched and taut like a bowstring. Byleth crooks her fingers inside him, searching, prodding methodically until she sees Linhardt’s eyes clamp shut, eyelashes wet with tears, limbs jolting like he’s just been electrocuted—_there we go._

“My harness is in my quarters,” Byleth says, patient, “If you wanted my cock you shouldn’t have decided to tease me here.”

“B-But you’re—_haaah—_you like it,” Linhardt mumbles.

“I think you’re the one who likes it,” Byleth’s voice drops an octave, “Spreading yourself open where anyone can see. Were you hoping someone would walk in?”

She slaps the inside of his thigh again, fingers fucking him so deeply that her palm squelches against his ass, and Linhardt keens in response—whether to her words or the particular angle of her fingers, it’s hard to say, until—

“Y-Yes,” Linhardt’s voice is raspy and whisper-soft, “T-Th—_ahh!—_they can watch m-me… so they know you’re mine.”

A fond smile, “You’re insatiable.”

Softer now, “Only for you.”

Linhardt balls his hands into the soft fabric of his skirts, so tight it might rip. He lets out such a loud wail that Byleth can’t help but indulge him, letting him ride her hand, fingers angled up to press against his prostate with each flick of her wrist.

“Tell me what you need,” Byleth’s voice is starting to crack, her own arousal painful and coiled in her belly.

“Mmm—Byl—_please, _please, please,” Linhardt’s head just shakes back and forth, stray hairs sticking with sweat to his neck, across his forehead.

Byleth leans over him, free hand cupping his cheek, mouth sucking at the hollow of his jaw, “You have to tell me what you want.”

“Nnh—” Linhardt opens his mouth, hiccupping wetly, voice so low Byleth can barely hear it, “Touch me, please, _please_.”

“Of course, beloved,” Byleth presses a kiss to Linhardt’s forehead, leaning back so she can smooth a hand up his leaking cock, “You don’t need much, do you?”

“N-No—” Linhardt lets out a broken moan, mouth open and drool trailing down the side of his cheek, “Please, please, _Byleth—”_

He’s a bit lost to it all, chanting like a prayer that only Byleth can answer—and so she does. Fingers punishing and unforgiving, milking his prostate, Byleth rolls her palm against the head of Linhardt’s cock, pressing just _slightly_ too hard, until Linhardt wails, broken and echoing through the abandoned library. He comes in her hand, hips twitching up violently, and Byleth strokes him through it, fingers squelching wetly against his spent cock until he finally jerks away, shivering with overstimulation.

Byleth lets herself watch him for just a minute, chest heaving, before the wetness in her own shorts becomes too difficult to ignore. She wastes no more time, manhandling Linhardt’s leg, pulling it down so she can straddle his thigh. He goes easily, limbs loose with the hazy afterglow of his orgasm.

“A—A bit worked up?” Linhardt pants out, and it should be illegal to look so fucked out and so smug at the same time. Byleth just nods, teeth worrying at her bottom lip as she grinds against Linhardt’s leg. It’s a bit base, a bit desperate, but she’s too close to the edge already. She leans over, pressing her upper body against Linhardt’s, mouth dropped open and panting as her nipples scrape against the scratchy lace of the maid apron, hips rutting pathetically.

“You’d look pretty in one of these,” Linhardt muses, faux casual, reaching up to stroke Byleth’s hair, “Let’s both wear them next time.”

That’s enough—Byleth’s hips jerk, then still, and she comes with a choked-off groan, feeling herself slick and wet in her shorts. Maybe a trip to the sauna is warranted after this.

“You ripped the blouse.”

“Huh?” Byleth is still draped over Linhardt, mind still putting itself back together, “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Linhardt smiles, “I’ll need a new one, though.”

Byleth hums, gathering her limbs, reluctantly pulling herself up and off Linhardt, pulling her shirt back down and attempting to make herself presentable. “I don’t know if it suits you though,” at the confused look that crosses Linhardt’s face, she elaborates, “For battle, I mean. A mage class suits you better.”

She helps Linhardt up, and he stands on wobbly legs, “Already thinking about the next battle? I should be insulted that I couldn’t get your mind to stray.”

“Maybe,” Byleth smiles, “I’m sure you’re already thinking about your research again.”

Linhardt grins, “Perhaps.”

It’s difficult for Byleth to reconcile the guilt she feels. As stony-faced as she seems, the toll of war is heavy, like—_how had Felix once phrased it?_—like gravestones strung around one’s neck. Everything reminds Byleth of the choices they’ve made, the consequences they have to live with.

Everything except Linhardt, it seems, who only reminds her of warm sunshine, the soft chill of dewy grass against skin, the indulgence of a nap on a hazy afternoon.

“I could carry you back to your room,” Byleth offers, rolling a lock of soft green hair between two fingers.

“How about back to your room?”

“Tease,” Byleth quips, but she doesn’t argue, “And I’ll get you a new dress. I promise.”

She pulls a loose ribbon from the bow at Linhardt’s chest, a bit that she had torn accidentally in her haste to pull him closer. He watches her with bemused, curious eyes following her movements as she folds it carefully, tucking it in her pocket.

A reminder to indulge— just every so often.

**Author's Note:**

> ok yell at me on twitter [@ellipsometry_](twitter.com/ellipsometry_)


End file.
